Chapter 11 #2
But right now, I’m powerless. And until I get my career back on track, firing him will only add to the ever-growing list of problems I’m facing. And if there’s one thing he’s good at, that Connie is good at, it’s dealing with a crisis.
The problem is that I don’t have any of their numbers memorized, one of the many downsides of being so reliant on technology.
And it’s not like I can ask the rehab folks to give me my phone to call them, considering I smashed it in the dressing room after I was escorted offstage in the midst of my meltdown.
Before I know it, my legs are carrying me down the hallway toward the reception desk. I lean on the counter and stare into Amara’s dark-brown eyes. Her umber skin is smooth and shimmering, no doubt a result of the lotion bottle beside her.
“Do you have my manager or publicist’s numbers on file?”
“You’re up late.” Her eyebrows rise as she continues tapping on the keyboard.
The hands on the clock behind her show it’s almost midnight.
“Popstar hours,” I shrug.
“I have a number for a Carla, Rob, Paul, and a Connie.” She squints at the screen.
A smile rises on my face. My hopes lift for the first time in weeks.
“Can you give me Paul and Connie’s please.”
I grab the pen from the counter and note them down on the palm of my hand as she reads them out.
“Anything else?” She tilts her head sideways when I drop the pen back down.
“Where’s the payphone again?” I ask, scanning the foyer as I try to locate it.
“Can I give you a little advice, sugar? I think you’re probably best waiting till the morning.” She lowers her chin as her brows draw together.
“Noted,” I nod in acknowledgment. “Night.”
I head back to my room, looking down at my palm. Paul and Connie are probably asleep now anyway, and this can wait until tomorrow. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.
Friday
With a handful of quarters and my notebook in hand, I impatiently wait for another patient to finish their call. I tap my foot repeatedly on the floor as I listen to her banal conversation about her kids.
I glance at my watch every time she looks my way. Frustration rises in my chest with every additional minute that passes. I fight the urge to reach out and hang up the phone on her.
My parents and brother are due back in thirty minutes, and the longer she takes, the less time I’ll have to learn how much of a shitstorm I’m dealing with. How much stands in the way of redemption.
“Come on,” I say when a staffer passes, my arm outstretched toward the other patient.
“Wrap it up, Chastity,” the staff member says, nodding at me.
If only she had a chastity belt wrapped around her mouth.
She goes on for an extra minute before slamming the phone down and giving me a side-eye as she walks away. I flash her a fuck-off smile in return.
I pick up the phone, slide in half a dozen quarters, then open my notebook and dial Paul’s number. Every muscle in my body tightens as I press the last digit.
I breathe a sigh of relief when he answers on the second ring.
“It’s me, Alex.”
“Everything okay?” Paul’s tone is hurried.
It isn’t. Nothing is okay, but for now I need to get to the point. I flick back a couple of pages in my notebook, trying to read my barely legible writing.
“Yeah. I just wanted to start thinking about what I need to do when I get out.”
“Okay…” The hesitation in Paul’s voice lingers.
I need to rip the Band-Aid off.
The infamous music term circles in my head: Don’t bore us, get to the chorus.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
“Has the label dropped me? Have my endorsement deals gone away? Has the film been shelved?” The words fly out of me like a quick round of bullets.
“Relax. The label hasn’t dropped you. The film is still pushing forward,” Paul answers in a slow, unhurried tone.
My muscles begin to relax until Paul’s awkward pause at the end, which I know precedes a but.
“And the endorsement deal. The Brewed campaign?” My whole body tenses up again.
There’s a pang of guilt in my heart at the thought of Christopher.
Paul’s heavy sigh on the other end of the receiver dials it up further.
“We’ve had to make some compromises. Some guarantees.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes,” I say, cutting Paul off. Panic crushes my heart tightly with its grip.
“They wanted to pull the plug on the whole campaign, but following Connie’s press release, they’ve stepped back slightly. They’re willing to roll it out, so long as you agree to doing some activation events and a press interview about what happened when you leave next month.”
Wait. Press release?
Did Connie amend the one she gave me at the intervention?
And address what happened at the VMAs?
The grip of panic intensifies and then loosens slightly as I realize my career isn’t completely tanked, but still not enough to stop my short, shallow breaths from continuing.
“Look, you just focus on getting better, and we’ll handle the rest,” Paul says. His voice is flat and steady, but still wound tightly like a guitar string.
“What about Christopher, have you spoken with him?”
The hesitation in his response is torture.
“Be honest with me, Paul.” I tighten my grip on the phone handle.
“He’s pissed.”